


here in the dark (i will lay down my heart)

by PictureThis



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Eventual Smut, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, dark themes, dark!Karen, several other characters to appear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-09
Packaged: 2018-06-01 08:41:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6511012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PictureThis/pseuds/PictureThis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>New York is the city that never sleeps and with every morning paper there are new stories to be told. Stories about saviors and superheroes; of gods, spies and magical beings that fill the world with hope.</p>
<p>Frank Castle and Karen Page are none of them.</p>
<p>Their stories - their real stories, are far too bloody, far too dark for salvation. But there is healing. And it is enough.</p>
<p>Or: the story about the story that will never get told.</p>
            </blockquote>





	here in the dark (i will lay down my heart)

**Author's Note:**

> im in kastle hell and im dragging all of you with me.
> 
> title from "i cant make you love" (the adele version is a fav), and all the love to my wonderful beta hesmybucky <3

The place is empty when he comes in, save for the waitress who immediately starts brewing a fresh pot of coffee when she sees him. She doesn’t say anything, so he picks out a table and makes himself comfortable – if two busted ribs can be called comfortable - and tries not to blink too heavily while he waits for his drink.

He’s halfway dozing when he hears the woman’s footsteps coming closer. Shifting in his seat, he waits for her to scream, or for the noise of broken glass as she drops the coffeepot. It’s entirely possible that the old lady simply didn’t recognize him on his way in, but now that they’re face to face, there’s no mistaking him for a regular.

“No pretty lady tonight?” She asks, instead. And of course that’s what she says, like the last time he sat in the old diner in this sketchy neighborhood he didn’t leave a trail of blood behind him on the counter, and two bodies growing cold.

“No, ma’am. Just me.” He can’t help but smile at her as she fills his cup, because she’s not throwing the hot coffee in his face, or on his lap, so that’s a win. And really? He doesn’t want to think too much about her question, because it brings things like _you’re dead to me_ to his mind. He really doesn’t want to think about that now.

In all fairness, he shouldn’t even be there. It’s not a very good idea to come back to the place where he filled those morons with bullets - not the walls, no, he was too good for that - but he ended up there all the same. Nothing to it, maybe he just liked the coffee. Maybe he liked the nice staff, or maybe he just needed to feel like the empty space across from him was a choice he made. _Just stay away from me._

Except it wasn’t his choice.

And that pissed him the fuck off.

So he drank his coffee, ignored the burn, and tried to empty his goddamned head of all things blond, brave, and kind. There was no place for those things in his life. Just one shot, one kill. (With some fists on the side. And knees. And occasionally; teeth).

But then he thinks of 0.380s and blind crime fighters and all he can do is laugh at himself because _this is not her first rodeo_ , and it won’t be the last, he’s sure of it. There is something there, something that should be ugly but it’s hers, so it isn’t. It’s _there_ and he sees it for what it is; a shadow deep inside her blue eyes, and he doesn’t know if he hates it for being there or if a part of him – however big or small – is glad that it is.

The truth is that it’s there.

The truth is that it’s there and Karen still cried.

She cried, every time. And he knows that what’s inside her doesn’t match what used to be inside him, what he is now. But that doesn’t stop him from smirking at the waitress on his way out.

“Maybe next time.”

The air is cold when he walks down the street, his single jacket not doing much by the way of getting him warm. The coffee was a small comfort - a temporary solution that was good enough to keep him awake, but not enough to keep out the cold. Then again, not many things were, these days.

He’s freezing inside.

He grips the gun tucked in the waistband of his pants to remind himself that it’s still there. Relying on anger has been a small reassurance in the time he’s been looking for answers, trying to complete his mission. It helps to keep his mind focused, keep out things that shouldn’t be there in the first place. It works. His trigger finger stops ticking when he holds the piece, and he breathes easier. It has become a part of him, or maybe it has always been. The weight of the gun is an extension of himself, just like the feel of heavy Kevlar on his chest.

Sometimes, when the bruises are gone and he looks at himself in the mirror, Frank swears he can’t recognize his own face without all the purple. All he needs is a couple of days and a handful of assholes waiting to get beat up, and his face goes back to something he is actually familiar with. He looks like himself again, whatever he is now.

Still, it does not last.

He gets to the shithole he’s been calling home lately, goes to the window to make sure there’s not some idiot looking to be killed downstairs - it’s not a good neighborhood, after all - and stands there, looking around at what his life has become now.

There are guns scattered everywhere - enough to do a good deal of damage – but he could pack it all up and be out of there in minutes if need be, so the mess doesn’t much bother him. He’ll organize it all later, when his ribs aren’t acting up.

Stepping away from the yellow light that’s streaming from the street, Frank sits on the too-thin-mattress and snorts out a laugh. The dog is there, of course. Wagging his tail as if it’s happy to see him, and what a funny thought that is. The bed isn’t worth shit, but he’ll just have to share, he guesses.

He lies down next to the pitbull that’s become his only companion, pets him until his eyes start drifting and hopes that, at least for tonight, he’ll be able to sleep more than two hours. The truth about hope is that it’s nothing but bullshit for people like him; like the Punisher.

Karen would say he’s living like a ghost, that he truly is as dead as people thought he was. She’d probably spew a lot of shit about how he should have used the opportunity to get away, to move on and make a new life for himself, but he knows the truth. He knows that for him, there’s only one kind of life. All he has now is this place. All he will _ever_ have will be places like this.

At least he knows he won’t die today. He can sleep here, and he can let his shoulders sag for this moment.

So he breathes out and tries to quiet his mind. The dog gives out a little huff, and Frank rests his hand on top of its head to get him to sleep again. He can’t help but shake his head at how ridiculous it all is, and the thought that comes to mind as he closes his eyes makes him smile;

Karen would fucking love the dog.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading and tell me what you think about it!!  
> updates will depend on my lazy ass. meanwhile, join me on tumblr while i freak out about these two, im punisherskaren (:


End file.
